


Twelve Days of Christmas War

by Frumpologist, MykEsprit



Series: Dramione Delectables [24]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, Competition, F/M, Fluff, Holidays, Humor, Romance, and lots of dead birds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 11:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17140925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/pseuds/Frumpologist, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykEsprit/pseuds/MykEsprit
Summary: Pansy, Theo, and Blaise demand an end to Draco and Hermione’s incessant competition after they nearly ruin their monthly game night. When Hermione and Draco agree on one, final competition - winner takes all - the Twelve Days of Christmas War begins.





	Twelve Days of Christmas War

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for the amazing admins of Dramione Fanfiction Writers for putting this fest together! 
> 
> Disclaimer: Harry Potter doesn’t belong to us (sad face).
> 
> Our little twist on the 12 Days of Christmas. There’s a scene in this fic that might seem familiar to Potterheads. See the end notes afterwards!

“Your feet are over the bloody line, Malfoy.”

“Your bloody _hair_ is over the line, Granger.”

They stood toe to toe and each held a charmed dart in their hands. It was Blaise’s brilliant idea to tiptoe over to where they stood and gently snatch the darts from their hands, lest they stab each other with the pointy end. Pansy ducked her chin as he sat down beside her. Blood all over her mother’s imported Venetian carpet wouldn’t go over well with the Parkinson matriarch.  

“You purposely skipped me, Draco!”

“I did not. You took two bloody turns because counting isn’t your strong suit, obviously –”  

“I was above you in NEWT Arithmancy, you arse!” Hermione shoved his chest, and Pansy could have sworn she heard a growl, though she couldn’t tell you which of her friends it came from.

The only thing she could do was laugh. Even Theo and Blaise’s shoulders shook as they watched the pair duke it out over who was following the rules more closely. As usual, Theo rooted for Hermione, and Blaise backed up Draco. Instead of feeling like the fifth wheel, Pansy called them all tossers and ignored the rest of the argument. It would resolve itself eventually – it always did.

If anything in Pansy’s life up to this point was a firm guarantee, something she could always count on no matter what, it was that her very best mates in the entire world were nothing short of cutthroat when it came to competition. Sure, most wizards had quidditch and exploding snap, but those meant very little in her circle of friends. Child’s play, Theo had once called it. They dedicated an evening once per month to destroying each other with games. Hermione single-handedly brought about the destruction of Blaise’s very favorite glass dinette set when she lost to Draco a month ago.

It was the first time they’d gathered together since that night. Draco and Hermione were hardly speaking to one another, no matter how forcefully Pansy tried to get them to interact. Best mates, and after one night of Puking Pastille Pong, it began to crash down around them. Blaise and Theo, to their benefit, patched things up quick enough by sending each of them an owl to apologize for the behavior of the other. That’s how Draco and Hermione had always been. Explosive and cataclysmically competitive in nature. No rivalry was bigger than the one they shared. Volatile, too. Ever since first year when Hermione bested Draco in all of their classes, it was a constant fight for the top spot. All seven years of Hogwarts were hell for the Slytherin House, who all had to listen to the never-ending bickering and trash talk between them.

Pansy sometimes wondered what it would have been like if Hermione had been sorted into any house other than Slytherin. They’d have brought down the entire school with their rivalry.

“Pansy, tell Draco –“

“Oh, no.” Pansy stood from her perched spot on the arm of her sofa, hands on her hips. “I am not getting in the middle of another one of your fights. You know, the holidays are right around the corner, and all of this fighting is really starting to ruin my favorite time of year.”

“ But, Hermione didn’t –“

“Draco wasn’t -”

“I don’t care. Merlin, I actually don’t care at all.” Pansy’s hands were up in the air, curled in frustration.

She was half a beat away from screaming when Theo, quiet and thoughtful, stepped beside her. He thumped his finger against his chin twice and then pointed it at the fired up pair in the middle of the room.

“Pansy’s right.” He tilted his head just a little bit and considered them for a moment. “We need to put an end to this before one of you kills the other.”

“Not that we don’t enjoy a little bloodshed during our holidays, of course,” Blaise said, a twitch of his lips as Pansy smacked him in the stomach.

“Though we’d rather not mourn at a funeral on Christmas, either.” Theo leveled a glance at Blaise and then turned his attention back to Hermione. “Pocket your wand, Granger. Malfoy, stop muttering the killing curse under your breath.”

The pair sheepishly eyed one another, but neither said another word. Hermione slid her wand back into her pocket, and Draco’s lips remained pressed together in a thin line. Pansy was impressed, actually. Theo tended towards introspection and non-aggression, but Draco and Hermione both respected his input enough to feel ashamed of their behavior when he called it out. Blaise chuckled next to her and Pansy threatened to smack him again, satisfied when he flinched away from her.

“Christmas is –” Theo peered around the room, and his eyes landed on a small advent calendar that Pansy hung next to her fireplace. “Thirteen days away. As your friends, we’re asking you – no, demanding you – to stop this mental behavior and put all of this competition behind you before Christmas. We can’t bloody take it anymore.”

Pansy nodded. “You two are the worst. Almost as bad as Hufflepuffs.”

Hermione and Draco both glared at her, and she shrugged. A spade is a spade, and Pansy called it as she saw it.

“Thirteen days?” Hermione asked, and she had that look on her face that Pansy didn’t quite like. It said she had an idea, and as cunning as Hermione could be, Pansy knew her ideas were more often than not a small step away from evil villainy. “How about one final competition. Winner takes all.”

“I don’t feel comfortable with the idea of encouraging this,” Blaise said in the silence that followed.

“How do we know who wins, then?” Draco asked sharply, never taking his eyes from Hermione. “We can’t simply end our game nights without declaring an overall winner. What’s the point of even having them, then?”

“Draco’s right.” Everyone turned toward Theo, whose contemplative face was pinched in thought. “The only way these two are ever going to stop is by finally declaring one of them the winner.”

“Winner of what?” Pansy stood up and joined the other three in the center of the room. “Everything?”

Blaise came up behind her. If anyone was looking in on them, they’d think the group was conspiring together on some devious plot, but it was a habitual formation for them. The five of them owned Slytherin House in Hogwarts for several years. Their tight circle was well known, and no one could break into it or find vulnerabilities to it. It was probably the reason any of them were alive today, to be honest. Their group of friends garnered so much attention and spite that the attempts to lure them apart was great.

“Whoever wins,” Hermione said dramatically, eying each of them in turn, “has bragging rights for being the best Slytherin since Salazar himself.”

“Really?” Draco’s pale eyebrows raised high on his head. “We’re seeking glory? Sounds like we’re a bunch of Gryffindors.”

“Not glory,” she clarified with a mischievous smile. “Power. We make a pact that whomever wins must be the other’s house elf for a week – ”

“A month – “

“A _year_.”

“You are all ridiculous.” Pansy’s hands were on her hips and her eyes rolled so hard that she could see the migraine that this entire evening was going to give her. “Okay. Whoever loses the competition that Theo, Blaise, and I decide on, will make a wizards oath to be the house elf to the winner. Agreed?”

Draco and Hermione faced each other wearing their best smirks. They reached out their hands and squeezed hard. “Agreed,” fell from their lips in perfect, hushed tones.

“Excellent. So, what’s the competition, Theo?” Pansy eyed the way that their hands touched a second or two longer than what was necessary and she couldn’t help her own self-satisfied smile.

“Me? I honestly don’t care. Blaise?”

Blaise shrugged. “Who can buy the best present for the other?”

Pansy sighed. Men were useless, utterly senseless. “That’s not the worst idea. But, it’s lacking.”

“Twelve Days of Christmas,” Hermione interjected excitedly. Pansy watched her eyes light up and her small smirk grow into a satisfied smile. “We will each buy a gift for the other for the twelve days of Christmas.”

“That’s… a lot of gifts.” Draco pointed out, but then lifted his chin. “Whoever’s collective gifts are deemed best wins?”

“As judged by me,” Pansy informed them. She could practically hear the cogs turning in Theo and Blaise’s brains; they couldn’t be impartial to the competition if they tried.

“Better get creative, Draco,” Hermione warned him. Pansy nearly flinched at the devious flash in her eyes. “I’ve already started a list of all the things I’m going to have you do when I win.”

Draco merely smirked in response, and Pansy wasn’t sure who she was more worried about winning. 

* * *

Snow came down in flurries, but neither this nor the foot of snow from last night’s blizzard made any impact on Diagon Alley. Holiday shoppers rushed from one storefront to another, their arms laden with boxes and gift bags. Children pressed their gloved hands against cool glass and stared longingly into the display window of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Grown men did the same thing, but at Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Draco could not fault them; the new Firebolt came out just in time for the holiday rush. He mused about getting one for himself—when can one be self-indulgent if not on Christmas?—but he quickly dismissed the thought. He wasn’t there to think on his own wish list.

He was there to get the Best Gift Ever and shove it in that insufferable swot’s face. Oh, to imagine her expression when she opens up her gift—whatever it would be, Draco was sure he’d figure it out soon enough—and then her brown eyes will light up, and a pretty blush will color her cheeks, and she’ll say, “ _Oh, Draco! How wrong I’ve been all these years! You’re absolutely better than me in all things, but_ especially _at Christmas—”_

“Draco!”

At the sound of his name, Draco dug his heels in the snow. He glanced at the row of quiet townhouses. He had been so caught up in the delectable fantasy of victory that he’d turned into a residential street, effectively leaving his companion on a busy footpath in front of the shops. He trudged back through the snow and was greeted with a pair of curious eyes.

“Where were you going?” Blaise asked.

“I...thought I saw someone I knew.”

Blaise cocked his head. “You hate everyone you know,” he said flatly.

“Which is why I was trying to get _away_ from them by going down a random street.” Draco folded his arms across his chest. “Is the Italian Inquisition over? Because I _do_ have a purpose for being here so bloody early.”

“Okay, first of all, _you’re welcome_ for agreeing to accompany you at eight in the fucking morning for this bloody errand.” His dark eyes rolled heavenward. “And, second, can we please hurry this along? I didn’t get much sleep last night, and I’d like a kip before lunch.”

As they meandered back to the heart of Diagon Alley, Draco huffed. “Oh? What’s her name?”

Blaise bestowed him a feline grin. “Beatrice. Met her in a pub after last night’s shenanigans. A _Muggle_ pub.”

Draco’s snort bounced off the tall building facades. “Of course, you did. You do have a type.”

“As do you,” Blaise muttered.

His head sliced to the side as he regarded Blaise’s impish expression. “What does that mean?”

Blaise shook his head, quietly chuckling. In lieu of an answer, he asked, “So, what are you getting Hermione for Christmas?”

Frustration caught in Draco’s throat. “I have no fucking idea. But it has to be perfect.”

“I bet it does.” Blaise nudged his chin towards Flourish and Blotts. “How about a book?”

He blinked slowly, unimpressed. “A book?” he drawled. “Well, golly. I hadn’t thought of that _at all_ , I’m _ever_ so glad you’re here—“

“All right, no need to get your knickers in a twist.” Blaise sighed. “How about a new set of robes?”

“I’m not her mum.”

His companion glanced at the colorful display in front of Sugarplum’s. “A bag of sweets?”

“I’m not her nan.”

Blaise raked his fingers over his short, tight curls and growled. “I don’t know mate. A bloody partridge in a pear tree, then!”

Draco halted and stared, slack-jawed, at his friend. “A what in a _what_?”

“It was something that Beatrice mentioned last night.” Blaise’s face relaxed into a grin. “I told her about your twelve-day Christmas challenge, and she mentioned a Muggle song.” As he described the presents, a plan took shape in Draco’s head.

“Hmmm. A prescribed list of Christmas gifts?” Draco mused as he gazed into the distance. “I can work with that.”

* * *

Draco hid behind a pillar near a bank of gilded fireplaces. Across the atrium, a small crowd gathered, but he waited patiently for a particular Ministry official.

Hermione charged out of the green flames with a stack of parchments in one hand and her post-lunch coffee in the other. To Draco’s advantage, the growing congregation caught her attention. Slowly, she jostled through the crowd; her clear voice reached him in his hiding place.

“What’s going on here?” she asked.

She was answered by a faint murmur. A moment later, the sound of ripping paper echoed in the atrium, followed by Hermione reading the words he had written with extra flourish: “On the first day of Christmas…” Confusion colored her tone.

Draco peeked through the gaps in between the crowd and spotted the curly-haired witch, who gazed at the yellow-green pyriform shapes hanging from her present. “A pear tree?” she murmured.

“Oh!” Beside Hermione, a stout blonde remarked, “Just like in the song!” She hummed a few off-key notes.

A branch moved; its surrounding leaves rustled.

“What was that?” Hermione inched closer to the tree to investigate. Draco’s smile widened in anticipation.

“A partridge, of course!” her chipper workmate said. “‘A partridge in a pear tree.’ It’s probably just settling in its nest.”

Hermione shook her head. “Impossible. Partridges don’t nest in trees; they nest on the ground.”

Draco covered a laugh with the back of his hand. Of course she would know that fact.

The branch shook again.

“But if it’s not a partridge,” the blonde asked, trepidation growing in her tone, “what’s in the tree?”

Hermione stepped closer and looked up at the branches. Her eyebrows knit together. “It looks like…” Briefly, her eyes narrowed. Then, they grew as wide as saucers. “Oh my—“

A cloud burst out of the leaves. From his hiding place, it looked as if bluebirds swarmed the atrium. Except they weren’t birds of any kind, they were—

“ _Pixies_!” a man hollered as he ran away. Panic spread quickly through the crowd as they tried to rush out of the atrium. Cornish pixies tugged the collars of their robes; rumpled their professional coifs; stole their paperwork and made them rain down from the atrium’s high ceiling.

In the midst of the chaos, Hermione stood with her back ramrod straight, hands fisted at her sides, and brown eyes fixed on him with fury.

Draco threw his head back and laughed as he raced to the nearest fireplace. He Floo’d out of the Ministry, Hermione’s scream resounding in his wake.

“MAL- _FOY_!”

* * *

 She fumed all through the day as she thought of the ridiculous display at the Ministry. Malfoy had purposefully started their Christmas War - because that’s what it was now - at a highly visible location, probably to throw her off. Well, he’d have another thing coming. Pixies in a Pear Tree – utterly ridiculous. Well, she’d show him; she’d call reinforcements.

Theo arrived with wine, bless him, and Pansy barged her way into Hermione’s flat carrying the caged birds she’d requested via owl. They sipped on the aged elfish wine and ran through Hermione’s notes. Hermione’s fingers got stuck in tangled bits of curls as they ran through her hair. She got annoyed with it and pulled it up into a loose knot on top of her head and ignored the bits that fell against her neck. If anyone could top Draco’s ridiculous Christmas gag, it was her. She just had to think harder. Twelve Days of Christmas was straightforward, really. She wrote down each day and what it entailed. But Merlin, she wasn’t sure how to make two turtle doves the Best Christmas Gift Ever.

“A partridge in a pear tree?” Theo considered the piece of parchment in front of him. “What the fuck is a partridge?”

“Never mind that now,” Hermione waved him off and snatched the caged birds from beside Pansy. “What can I possibly do with these doves to top that? Cheeky git went public. He’s really gone mental, hasn’t he?”

Hermione stood in the sitting room of her flat, Pansy right beside her with a smirk plastered across her face.

“Well, you did tell him to get creative this year.” Pansy folded her arms across her chest, trying desperately to keep her cackling to herself.

“Yeah, but when I said that I wanted twelve days of Christmas, I didn’t mean literally!” She shrieked as she held a cage of two pristine white turtle doves, cooing lovingly beside each other.

“Two down… ten to go.” Pansy lost control and began to wail hilariously.

“You’re really no help.” Hermione rolled her eyes and turned to Theo. “Shall I Transfigure them into real half turtle-half doves? Is that even remotely funny?”

Theo leveled a dark gaze at her and barely spared the energy to shake his head. “It’s not so much the gift, Granger. It’s the presentation. If you’re going along with this turtle dove charade, you’re going to have to think _bigger_.”

“I could enlarge them?” Hermione shrugged, and Pansy was in fits next to her. She sighed. “It’s not going to make much of a scene if I just send two caged birds to Draco and say ‘Happy Christmas.’”

“Twelve Days of Christmas, Granger, how does the song go?” Theo’s voice was encouraging, like he was leading her exactly where he wanted her to go. “On the twelfth day of Christmas… he receives everything all over again, yeah? How many turtle doves does the true love have in the end?”

She gasped and snapped her fingers. “Brilliant, Theo! Yes! Oh, he’s going to _hate_ me. It’s brilliant. Pansy, I need you to get me into Draco’s office tonight. Can you?”

Pansy sobered and ducked her chin, all business. She plucked a golden key from within her bosom and held it out for the other two to see. “Being everyone’s best friend has its benefits.”

* * *

“It’s really eerie in here without the lights on,” Hermione whispered as Pansy opened the door to Draco’s office. “He’s very minimalist, isn’t he?”

“Just because his office doesn’t look as if it’s been attacked by an abominable snowman in nesting season, doesn’t mean he’s minimalist, Granger.” Pansy closed the door behind the three of them and locked it again.

“Organized chaos is still chaos,” Theo told her as Hermione opened her mouth to argue. “You’re a swotty slob, but we all still love you.”

Hermione scoffed, narrowed her eyes, and then tossed her satchel onto the middle of Draco’s dark wooden desk. When she opened it, one solitary turtle dove flew out. She prodded the bag with her wand. Something moved around, dragging the satchel to the side of the desk, and then back again. Suddenly, twenty one more beautiful, white doves flew out.

“Salazar’s Snake,” Pansy breathed as she watched them fly around the room in a perfect circle. “He might bloody well kill you, Granger.”

“Oh, this is nothing. The duplicate doves aren’t actually sentient. The second that he tries to use magic to make them stop flying…” A proud smirk lifted the corners of Hermione’s lips as she aimed her wand at one of the doves and cast a stunning spell. Instead of stopping or falling, the dove burst into a shower of glitter and went absolutely everywhere.

“That’s fucking devious,” Theo, who wasn’t prone to laughter, chuckled darkly. “Duplicate it again, and let’s get out of here.”

* * *

The next morning, Hermione made sure to arrive early to the Ministry. She strolled by Draco’s department, coffee in hand, and made idle chat with Blaise while she waited to see Malfoy stroll by in his usual morning dawdle into the office. She greeted him with a kind smile, tipped her chin, and bid him good morning. From across the corridor, Pansy’s eyes glittered as she watched Draco open his door and stop immediately.

Theo and Blaise flanked Hermione. Theo was quiet and amused, but Blaise stopped breathing altogether. Draco didn’t react, just pulled his wand from within his robes and took aim.

“Er, Draco,” Blaise stepped closer. “I don’t think Avada-ing the birds will help, mate.”

“They’re not _real_ , Blaise. You can see their magic shimmer when they fly.” Draco rolled his eyes. “Hermione obviously loses round one.”

He fired off three spells in quick succession and the effect was instantaneous. Rainbow-colored glitter everywhere. Draco turned to Hermione, fury in his gray eyes, and shook glitter from his hair all over the ground at his feet.

Hermione wiggled her fingers at him and turned around to leave. As she flounced down the corridor, so much laughter at her back, she heard Draco cursing up a storm.

“ _Bloody_ Hermione Granger!”

* * *

“Gaahhhhh!” Draco rubbed his cheek as he glared at the mirror. It had been twelve bloody hours; yet he kept finding rainbow glitter everywhere, despite soap and water and magic. “Bloody infuriating woman!” He scrubbed the glitter off his face. He thought he had at least cleaned his hair and face of the buggering things, but he must have touched a surface where they lingered—and since his _entire office_ had  been covered with glitter following the Great Turtle Dove Massacre…“Bloody _evil_ woman,” he muttered darkly at his reflection.

“I thought it was funny.”

Draco shifted his glare to Blaise’s image in the glass. The lanky man leaned against the tile behind him, a mischievous grin playing on his lips.

“Hey, at least it’s just glitter. Considering how downright scary Hermione can get when she’s angry...or annoyed...or just hungry…” Blaise shrugged unapologetically. “Could have been worse.”

Grey eyes narrowed to slits. “That blasted glitter,” Draco sneered, “fell down my collar. It got under my clothes, Blaise. I’ll be finding glitter in— _places_ —for weeks!”

Blaise covered his mouth with a fist and had a coughing fit, which sounded very much like constrained laughter. Draco glowered at his traitorous friend’s reflection until he finally quieted down.

“What’s next?” Draco pushed through gritted teeth.

“Go starkers and guide Father Christmas’ sleigh with your shiny bum?” Blaise laughed.

“I meant, what’s next on the gift list, you twat.”

Blaise glanced up at the ceiling, mouthing silently to himself as if singing through the verses. “Three French hens,” he stated after a moment.

“Great.” Draco curled his fingers around the edges of the sink and leaned towards the mirror. His eyes glinted, thirsty for vengeance. “I’ll fight fire with fire.” His reflection frowned. “Or fowl with fowl, as the case may be.”

Behind him, Blaise winced. “I dunno, mate. Isn’t that a bit too...uninspired? Hermione did say to get creative.”

Draco cocked his head and pressed his lips together. “You’re right,” he murmured. “It simply wouldn’t do if I just sent back three glittery French hens.” Then, an idea struck him, a plan so devious he practically vibrated with giddiness. “What I _should_ do,” he said, more to his own reflection than to his friend observing him curiously in the mirror, “is send her three. Glittery. French. Hens.”

* * *

There was a rapping on Hermione’s door, light but persistent. Pansy raised an eyebrow at the brunette, who glanced at the door with apprehension.

“Are you going to get it?” Pansy asked.

The corner of Hermione’s lips twisted. “Are you having me on? Of course not! The whole purpose of me holing up in my flat all day is to avoid anything that prat may send.”

“Are you really that scared of a few chickens?” Pansy’s lips pulled up into a smirk.

Hermione raised her glass of wine—she and Pansy have gone through quite a few bottles by now—and mumbled, “Chickens are evil.”

“All right,” Pansy drew out. “I guess we’ll just sit here and wait for them to go away.”

For two full minutes, she and Hermione sipped their drinks in silence, looking everywhere but the white door, which undulated from the frantic knocking.

“So,” Hermione yelled over the sound, “what do you think about—“

Pansy cut her off with an irritated growl. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” She jumped up and marched to the door. “I can’t stand it anymore!”

“Pansy! _No_!”

With a grunt, Pansy ignored her, yanking the door open. Light flashed in her eye; she blinked until her vision cleared and revealed three unexpected guests.

“Ahhhhhh! Zere you are!” Platinum blonde hair and floor-length sequins waited beyond the door. “We ‘ave been waiting for _ages_!” The woman waltzed into the small living room without further invitation.

She was followed quickly a golden blonde beauty with a plumed dress and a haughty scowl. “ _Why_ do you not let us in?” She pouted a plump lip. “Iz zo _drafty_ out zere!”

On her heels was a statuesque woman with blonde curls falling down her back like a waterfall. “We are supposed to spend ze ‘ole day wiz you!”

“Chloe. Sandrine. Lucette.” Pansy greeted each one respectively with a shallow nod. She gave the sisters—Draco’s French cousins, though she couldn’t quite remember how far removed—a questioning glance. “What are you doing here?”

Lucette gave a flabbergasted Hermione—wine glass forgotten on the carpet as she scrambled up from the floor—a brilliant smile. “Cousin Draco zaid you want us ‘ere.” She grasped Hermione’s hands in both of hers and leaned in to plant kisses on her cheeks. “‘Ermione! You ‘ave no idea ‘ow long we ‘ave waited for this! For years and years, ever since we met you!”

Hermione bit her lip, alarm growing in her eyes. She once confided to Pansy that she found the sisters exasperating with their incessant chattering about clothes and aesthetics. Shallow as they were, the sisters were well-intentioned and enthusiastic; it was difficult to turn away their company. Although even Pansy, who had more of an interest in such things, found spending time with them a challenge.

The other two sisters circled Hermione, examining her hair, minimal makeup, and outfit; Hermione’s throat bobbed. “Wait for what?” she whispered.

Lucette leaned in, the tip of her shapely nose grazing Hermione’s. Her blue eyes were so bright and excited, they bordered on manic. “For us to give you a _makeover_!”

Hermione’s eyes grew wide with fear.

* * *

No matter how much she scrubbed or charmed or finite’d, the bloody makeup wouldn’t come off. The French cousins applied permanent sticking charms to all of their contours and highlights. Hermione looked like a damn runway model and she. Hated. It.

“You look gorgeous!” Theo gushed, and she smacked him hard in the chest. “I mean of course you look nice normally, but those hens certainly know their craft.” 

Hermione hid her face behind splayed hands and groaned. “It’s awful. I don’t want my looks to define me. I’m a powerful witch! I don’t need to be pretty!”

“Of course not. Terrible responsibility, being attractive.” Theo chuckled. “So, it’s your go, yeah? Four calling birds on the list. What’re you going to do?”

“Murder of crows?” Hermione grumbled into her hands.

“Not really a Christmas gift.” Theo reached forward and pulled her hands away from her face.

“Magpies.” She whipped her head to Theo and was instantly annoyed at the luscious waves that gently fluttered around her face. “He’s going to get the beautiful song of four magpies.”

“Er…” Theo peered at her skeptically, a face she knew wasn’t impressed by her gift idea. “Sounds great?”

His concern faded when she pinned him with a devious smirk.

* * *

“Pansy said she’s nearly blonde now,” Blaise laughed as he sat with Draco in his parlor. “Cheekbones to put even your mother to shame.”

“My cousins never fail to disappoint,” Draco chuckled against the lip of his tumbler and tossed back the amber liquid inside.

“She must have skived off work today,” Blaise pressed, glancing to Draco as if the blonde was going to divulge some deep secret. “Did you happen to catch sight of her?”

Draco downed another glass of whisky before wiping his lips. “I didn’t like it.”

Blaise opened his mouth to say something pointed about Draco’s opinions when it came to Hermione, but he was interrupted. Something rapped on the window. _Tap - tap - tap - tap._ Blaise pulled his wand to open the window, but Draco stopped him with a shake of his head and then glared as a rogue shiny piece of glitter fell onto his sleeve.

“My four calling birds, I assume.” He lowered Blaise’s arm. He didn’t trust that these birds were only birds. Nefarious winged beasts, maybe. Glitter bombs, probably. But definitely not birds.

“Fuck’s sake, Draco,” Blaise sighed and rolled his eyes. He opened the window anyway and let the birds inside. “They’re just magpies.”

The birds hopped inside and then flew to perch on the back of Draco’s chair. He watched them closely, cautious in case they exploded or began to peck his eyes out. After a few minutes, they started to sing a melodic and sweet tune that actually calmed his nerves completely.

“She sent you singing birds?” Blaise considered the small black birds. “Lame.”

Draco, however, was pleased nothing more sinister was happening. He listened to the song of the birds, and when it came to an end, he very nearly felt soothed.

Until, of course, the birds’ songs started again. And again, and again, and again. No matter what he tried - stunners, silencers - the birds wouldn’t stop bloody singing. Hours passed and he stared up at his ceiling with red, tired eyes, and the birds were still carrying on with their song.

* * *

Draco was still humming that incessant tune the next day. “Gah!” He tugged at the roots of his hair, wishing he could yank every single note of that song from his memory.

By morning, the birds were gone.

Well...they were dead. Draco had no idea what happened to them—he would be willing to testify under Veritaserum. All he knew was by breakfast—after eventually falling asleep and being chased by that blasted song in his nightmares—he woke to four unmoving magpies on the parlor couch.

Either Hermione had charmed the artificial birds to survive only one night—or Bitzy took matters into her own hands. Draco had his money on the latter.

He eyed Bitzy warily as she bustled around the study, dusting the lampshades. He was so engrossed in analyzing just how far his control-freak House Elf would go that he didn’t hear Blaise enter the room.

“Hmm. What’s this?” Blaise snatched the box in front of Draco before he could protest. Lifting the lid, he glanced at the contents skeptically.

Draco tsked. “Give me that.” He stole the box from Blaise without waiting for a reply.

“Is that…”

“A present for Granger?” A mischievous smirk pulled at his lips. “Why, yes, Blaise. It is.”

“What’s it do?” Blaise peered over his shoulder at the gift, nestled on green velvet lining. “Petrify her fingers? Charm her into writing only naughty words?”

Draco shook his head slowly, basking in the wickedness of his plan. “Nothing.”

“‘Nothing?’” Blaise pulled back, staring at him with a dubious expression. “As in nothing-nothing?”

A sinister laugh bubbled in Draco’s chest, and he released it, filling the large room. In the corner, Bitzy didn’t bother hiding her eye-roll.

Blaise sat against the edge of the desk. “I don’t get it, mate.”

“It’s like in those Muggle horror films she always makes us watch. The scariest part is the not knowing what the monster is—what it’s capable of.” Draco leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers in front of him. “It doesn’t _need_ to do anything. When Granger receives this gift, the little swot will drive herself crazy trying to figure it out.”

Blaise stared at him, open-mouthed, as he shook his head. “Draco Malfoy,” he whispered in awe. “You’re a fucking genius.”

* * *

“Draco Malfoy,” Pansy mumbled under her breath, “you’re a fucking idiot.” She brought her glass of wine to her lips and took a healthy gulp.

After failing to detect curses, hexes, or any other antics, Hermione had rushed out of the living room, the small box secured under layers of charms. She had taken it to her magical safe for good measure, afraid of what the gift might do.

“Do you think she knows what those were?” Theo drawled, crossing his legs at the knees and sipping on a glass of Scotch.

Pansy sliced her head to the side. “I don’t think so. I don’t think she’s that well-read when it comes to Sacred Twenty-Eight customs. Not like we are, anyway.”

Theo hummed. “All right. Here’s a more interesting question: do you think _he_ knows what he just gave her?”

She covered her laughter in case Hermione came back down—and started asking awkward questions. “ _That_ , I don’t know. Draco’s not one to forget the meaning of Pureblood gestures. But when it comes to Hermione, his logic tends to get a little...wonky.” She and Theo shared a knowing look.

“So, you don’t think he realizes that he just gave her a box of promise rings— _five_ of them, for good measure?”

Pansy snorted. “The day Draco sorts himself out when it comes to Hermione is the day I dance naked for Harry Potter.”

Theo smirked at her around his tumbler. “You know, there’s a rumor around the Auror bullpen that he fancies you.”

“Shut up, Nott.” Pansy glanced away, trying to control the heat in her cheeks.

* * *

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Hermione sat across from Pansy, holding a steaming mug of tea and staring at the five rings mutinously. “Why, after everything these past few days, would Draco Malfoy give me… promise rings? Five of them!”

Pansy shrugged and sipped her wine – because as Hermione knew, if it was dark outside or a weekend, Pansy was imbibed with wine, full stop. Who was Hermione to argue with someone else’s life choices? She clearly had her own issues. Like one Draco Malfoy fucking with her mind and presenting her with promise rings, of all things. A promise to murder her at the end of this, perhaps?

“Maybe he likes you.” The way Pansy peered at her over the glass of merlot made Hermione glare in return. She was really getting tired of these pointed comments. “Or not, Hermione. That’s the point. Maybe he has no bloody idea what they are. I just thought I should tell you.”

“Thank Merlin it’s Saturday,” Hermione muttered into her cup. “I don’t think I could stand to see him today.”

“What are you sending to him, then?” Theo walked into the room and sat in his designated chair. He stole Hermione’s tea right out of her hands and barely flinched as the piping hot liquid ran down his throat. “Six geese a-laying, your notes say.”

Hermione sighed. Right, more birds. “Whoever wrote this song needs to get checked out for orinthomania. It’s completely ridiculous to think your true love would want six geese laying eggs. Unless they laid golden eggs, but who can afford that?”

Theo coughed, and Pansy kicked him under the table. Hermione glared at them for a moment before she summoned her notes and passed them to Theo.

“I did some research –”

“Granger? Research? Lies!” Pansy chuckled. “Only joking, Hermione. It’s endearing, how clever you are.”

“Anyway.” Hermione summoned a large box and set it on the table in front of her, effectively blocking Pansy’s amused face from view. “I did some reading this week on the meaning of the song and what each gift can symbolize. And did you know –“

“Let’s assume that no one except for you knows.” Theo’s eyebrows knit together as he read through her scribbles. “What are we going to do about eight maids a-milking? Buy him a cow?”

“We’re not there yet, Nott, get your head in the game!” The competitive streak was coming out; they were halfway to the end and there was no clear winner. He bought her jewelry. Of course that gave him bonus points. She didn’t have time for Theo’s nonsense.

“Granger’s in it to win it,” Pansy commented with a giggle.

“It’s bloody nine o’clock in the morning, Parkinson.”

“Oh, hush, Nott. I know your scotch habits.” She leveled him with a knowing look. “I do spend a lot of time with Daphne, you know.”

Theo stopped talking and found Hermione’s notes intensely interesting after that. While it was quiet, Hermione unboxed the gift and set it on the table. It was a large globe, sepia in color and strung against a solid oak wooden curve. She pulled six pins out of her pocket and began sticking them in several places; Los Angeles, The Maldives, Mount Kilimanjaro, Maunakea, The Amazon, The Great Barrier Reef.

“What are those pins?” Theo asked, finally pulled from her notes. “Six geese a-laying translates to… travel?”

“It’s an old Muggle belief that it translates from – the story of creation. One pin for each of God’s first six creations. Places Draco and I can travel next.”

“Together?”

Hermione nodded.  

“Alone?”

She nodded again.

“Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy alone together in The Amazon Rainforest?” Theo lifted a thick brow over his eye as he considered her.  “Oh, to be a fly on the wall…”

* * *

“What does it mean, Blaise?” Draco spun the globe around and around as his eyes watched the little red pins as if they were going to spell out a special message.

“It looks like a globe.” Blaise stopped its spinning with a finger and pushed on one of the pins. Both of them tensed, waiting for something sinister to happen. When nothing did,  both visibly relaxed. “It’s a globe.”

“Yes.” Draco glared at him, lips pinched. “I’m quite certain I could figure that out on my own. What about the pins?”

Blaise shrugged. “Places she’s shagged –”

“Don’t.” Draco lifted his hand up and cut Blaise off. “Must you always remind me of her dalliances with that prat?”

Blaise grinned and yanked out a red pin. “You’re right. There’s no way Granger could get to the top of Kilimanjaro _and_ enjoy a good –”

“Zabini!” Draco warned.

Blaise chuckled. “Just saying, mate, I think she’s fit but I don’t think she’s climb-a-mountain-and-shag-for-an-hour-fit.”

The most ungodly noise ripped itself from Draco’s throat as he spun the globe around again, hoping for some other explanation for the blasted thing.

* * *

Pansy and Blaise strode into Draco’s study for the usual reason—to raid his liquor cabinet. They expected to find Draco still sulking over Hermione’s latest present.

They were quite surprised when they found him bent over an object on his desk—a cardboard box with red stickers on the sides, marked, ‘Fragile.’

“What’s in the box?” Pansy asked as she breezed to the decanter.

A sly smile graced Draco’s sharp features. “Exactly.”

Understanding flashed across Blaise’s face; his lips contorted with disgust. “Mate,” he warned, “there better not be seven severed swan heads in that thing.”

Draco answered him with a guttural guffaw.

* * *

“What’s in the fucking box?” Theo asked once again.

Hermione scrutinized the package on her coffee table. She recognized the reference immediately.

Months ago, she watched the movie _Seven_ with Draco. Right there in her living room—on the couch where she now sat—the two of them huddled. She had burrowed into his side, clutching his hand as Brad Pitt yelled those exact words.

Her cheeks heated at the memory—at the way he held onto her, at the cedar notes of his cologne as she hid her face in the crook of his neck—

With a deep inhalation, she shook herself like a dog flapping off water. And then eyed that box with trepidation. “He wouldn’t,” she murmured with disbelief.

“What’s in the _fucking box_?!” Theo yelled.

“Hopefully, not anything that will get us jailed for animal cruelty.” She bit her lip and scooted to the edge of her seat. Slowly, she tore the tape open at the seams. Reached inside.

And pulled out an exquisite crystal swan figurine. She peeked in and found six more glimmering in various graceful poses.

“Oh,” she breathed as she held one up to the light. “Oh, that’s quite pretty.”

Across the table, Theo rolled his eyes. “That’s it, then? A box of figurines? I expected more theatrics from a Malfoy.”

Hermione ignored him as she gazed at the lovely gift in her palm.

* * *

“I’d say he’s in the lead,” Theo mumbled over the lip of his glass. Hermione glared at him. He shrugged. “You can’t out-purchase him at this point.”

“She doesn’t have to.” Pansy swooped into her defense and shoved a glass of wine toward her. “Hermione will have something brilliant for day eight, won’t you?”

“Short of finding him some breastfeeding mothers, Pansy, I don’t really think I can find him eight maids a-milking and actually win this competition.” Hermione sighed and pressed her hand into her forehead. Pansy was trying to ply her with drinks but Merlin, she couldn’t think sober let alone with the amount of wine Pansy wanted her to imbibe.

“Send him _one_ maid a-milking,” Theo offered unhelpfully as he snatched Pansy’s bottle and poured himself another glass.

Hermione lifted her head and stared at Theo’s sparkling, mischievous eyes. “I don’t think I care for what you’re implying.”

“Prostitutes are the Sacred Twenty-Eight way, Granger!” Pansy laughed and caught Hermione’s glare. “Oh, come on. We all know that Draco wouldn’t actually enjoy it. But –“

“How do you know? Have you actually ever known him to date anyone?” Hermione raised her eyebrows. “I haven’t. He’s probably a virgin.”

Theo coughed and spluttered dark liquid all down his white shirt. His face was red under the strain of choking out the alcohol. Pansy was cackling. But Hermione? She was fucking miserable. Eight fucking maids a-milking made absolutely no sense as a modern gift.

“This is worse than the bloody bird massacres of days two and four.” She groaned and smacked her head against the table. There would be a bruise in the morning. “Theo, _help_.”

“While I firmly believe that prostitutes in place of cows is Pansy’s best stroke of brilliance in ages,” Theo smirked and tossed back another drink of whatever he and Pansy were getting drunk on tonight. “You’re right that it won’t work for our Malfoy heir. What do your notes say?”

Hermione glanced down at her rushed scribbles and squinted to try and make out the words. “Eight beatitudes.”

“The fuck is that?” Pansy grabbed the notes with a swish and spilled liquid all over the parchment. “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. What. The. Fuck.”

“Granger.” The back of Theo’s hand was against Hermione’s forehead. He’s stared at her seriously. “Have you actually lost your mind over this competition? Trying to outdo Draco with…”

And then it was quiet. So quiet. Until Theo started to laugh. Hermione’s lips twitched.

“Oh, Granger. Granger, Granger, Granger, you are a fucking genius.” Theo praised her.

Pansy, however, glared at them both with narrowed eyes. “What is happening?!”

* * *

“Draco?” Hermione’s voice was small as she knocked on his door and called to him from the other side. “Draco, are you home?”

Nothing happened for several minutes, and she was just about to leave when Draco finally cracked the door open and peered at her through a small sliver. He looked at her with keen suspicion and with pinched lips.

“What do you want?”

“Can I come in?” She blew into her hands and rubbed them together to warm up. It was bloody cold and the middle of December. He wouldn’t leave her outside to freeze, surely.

He opened the door after a moment and allowed her to pass him by. “What do you have for me, Granger? Eight prostitutes?”

She laughed. Evidently, she was getting predictable with her gifts. Hermione shook her head and smiled at him with her hand outstretched, offering it to him to take. He didn’t trust her because he knocked her hand to the side and followed her to sit on the sofa.

“What do you want, then?” He asked as she scooted closer to him. Draco moved over, and she followed him. She didn’t leave much space between them at all. “Dammit, Granger, what the hell are you playing at?”

Hermione snatched up his hand and held it firmly between hers. He twitched but didn’t try to take it back. She sensed his unease, though, and lifted her lips in an attempt to calm his nerves.

“Draco.” She licked her lips and took a deep breath. “I forgive you.”

Silence. Daunting, heavy, palpable silence hung in the scant space between them. His eyes brightened and then narrowed, and he pulled his hand away. His finger pointed at the door.

“Get. Out.”

“But –”

“Get out.”  

He opened the door with his wand. And then forcibly removed her and allowed the door to slam shut in her face.

* * *

“Forgive me?” Draco mumbled under the gush of a steaming shower. “ _Forgive_ me? Forgive _me_?!” He growled.

Forgiveness for what, he couldn’t possibly fathom. He had been nothing but a perfect gentleman in their nearly decade and a half of friendship. Sure, he often teased her about her frizzy hair and bland fashion sense. Her know-it-all attitude, and always needing to be right. Her tendency to prefer the company of books instead of people. Not to mention the competitive frenzy they both got into around the holidays. But, other than that…

A perfect gentleman.

“Willing to _forgive me_ , is she?” he sneered, glaring into the cloud of steam darkly. An idea took shape; one that might be stepping over the line, but…”Let’s see how far that forgiveness can go.”

His resolve held firm. For in truth, it wasn’t really her sanctimonious little stunt that chafed—it was what she did before that. The nestling on the couch, their knees touching. The way she leaned into him, their faces mere inches apart. How that tongue—always quick with a swotty comeback—darted over her pillowy bottom lip.

That whole act was... _frustrating_ . That she would tease him like so was irritating enough. That his body reacted the way it did—the way it was reacting _now_ , as he pictured that pink tongue once again—

With an annoyed grunt, he turned the cold water to full blast.

* * *

The last department meeting before the holidays was always painful. Magical Law Enforcement was always swamped around this time. Normally, Hermione enjoyed her work—yes, for all the good she and her coworkers did, protecting the people of the United Kingdom.

Just a _tad_ more important, though, was what it meant for her career. Deputy Head of the DMLE at her age—she was a shoe-in for Minister for Magic.

The Sorting Hat didn’t place her in Slytherin for nothing.

Her aspirations, however, were at the back of her mind as the clock ticked slowly. Someone rambled on about next year’s expenditure budget. Throughout the room—from the pencil-pushers and bureaucrats to the beefy, stone-faced Aurors—boredom was nearly palpable.

It was in this dreary lull that they came.

“ _Say my name, say my name_ ,”—lead dropped to the pit of Hermione’s stomach as the vocals echoed through the meeting hall—“ _When no one is around you—say ‘Baby, I love you.’ If you ain’t runnin’ game…”_

“Is that Destiny’s Child?” a young Auror muttered.

 _“Say my name! Say my name_.” The double-doors swung open, and they filed in. Statuesque figures clad in dark robes, donning colorful, sparkly masks.

One, two, three...They filed into the short aisle, sashaying to the smooth vocals. Eight of them.

“Oh, _bollocks_.” Hermione groaned. Eight dancers in total, wearing masks mocking those blasted Death Eaters. Which only meant one thing; and Hermione covered her face with her hands just as the first heavy beat landed and a stilletoed foot posed in the doorway.

She traced that five-inch heel up a muscular leg wrapped in fishnet stockings. Over a slitted grey robe—to the noseless face of the late Lord Voldemort. Lip-syncing to Beyoncé.

“Oh, _gods_ ,” Hermione moaned, while the rest of the room erupted.

Not with offended clamor.

Instead, they _cheered_. Shouts of wonder and encouragement. A few salacious whistles. Sure, there were some in the older set who fidgeted with discomfort, but all-in-all, the room was filled with bright smiles and surprised laughter.

Especially as Voldemort danced his way down the aisle and up to the dais where Hermione and the other heads were seated.

“ _Say my name, say my name_ ,” Voldemort mouthed as he slipped his robe down one shoulder.

Hermione spied Harry Potter in the front row, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, surrounded by his raucous Aurors.

When the instrumentals came on, Voldemort sauntered to Hermione, bent down to her ear, and said in the richest baritone voice, “Draco Malfoy wishes you a very merry Christmas.” Then, he joined the rest of the dancers to finish the song with a perfectly choreographed sequence.

As the vocals ended and the audience jumped up to their feet, clapping and hollering, Minister Shacklebolt turned to Hermione. “Well, that’s one way to end a staff meeting.”

With her cheeks still burning, Hermione gazed at the talented dancers and the cheerful faces around the room. “Indeed,” she said breathlessly. A smile tugged on her lips, and after a moment, she gave into it. “Indeed.”

* * *

To say that dinner wasn’t awkward would have been a lie. Pansy Parkinson was many things—sneaky and salty and snarky when provoked—but she was not a _liar_.

She was also not a strangler—though as she watched Draco and Hermione watch each other across the table when they thought the other wasn’t looking, Pansy debated the merits of adopting that descriptor.

The room was silent save for the clatter of silverware against china. Not an altogether strange scenario—for a group of friends as tight-knit as theirs, comfortable silence was not uncommon. Hermione and Draco sneaking surreptitious glances at each other wasn’t entirely out of place, either. But after the nonsense of the past week and a half, Pansy had had enough of their reluctant dance.

Apparently, she wasn’t the only one.

“So.” Blaise cleared his throat. “Anything interesting happen to anyone recently?”

From the corner of Pansy’s eye, Hermione’s cheeks reddened as she glued her gaze to her plate. Across the dining table, Draco popped a piece of roast in his mouth and chewed slowly, eyeing Hermione with a triumphant gleam.

“Anything at all,” Theo butted in, winking at Pansy. He had come to dinner before the others and rushed through the latest installment of the twelve-day saga. He wasn’t at the staff meeting—it was mostly for the big shots of the DMLE—but he heard about yesterday’s tomfoolery from other Aurors in glorious detail.

Pansy’s abdominal muscles still ached from the laughter that ensued.

Laughter that was threatening to flow over as one best friend now studiously ignored the other.

“Draco,” Pansy crooned. “Anything you’d like to share with the group?”

“Nope.” Draco lifted a glass of wine to his lips. “Nothing interesting happened to _me_ in the last twenty-four hours.”

Pansy turned to her friend, who was doing her best interpretation of a tomato. “What about you, Hermione? Any fun stories to liven up this dreary dinner?”

Hermione shook her head violently. “Hm-hm. No, nothing. Just a regular, normal day.”

Draco peered at her from under his thick lashes. “Are you sure, Granger? Nothing you’d like to _say_?” he asked, dragging the last word out.

Hermione glared at him under her furrowed brows.

“Nothing for which you need to dive into that _deep_ well of forgiveness?” Draco sneered.

Hermione’s utensils clacked on her plate as her back pulled up straight. “Oh.” Her eyes narrowed in challenge. “Is _that_ what that ridiculous display was about? Did I bruise your fragile ego when I implied that the great Draco Malfoy makes mistakes?” 

Draco answered by arching a brow and taking a long, slow sip of his red wine.

“As... _amusing_ ...as yesterday’s entertainment was,”—Hermione planted both palms on the table and leaned forward—“you did it at my place of _work_. I could have been in serious trouble with my superiors!”

“Ah.” Draco mirrored her posture. “But I suppose coming into _my home_ and insulting me _to my face_ was a far cry better—“

“You _know_ how seriously I take my work—“

“You destroyed the _sanctity_ of my _manor_ —“

“ _STOP FIGHTING, MUMMY AND DADDY!”_

The shouting screeched to a halt as they all turned to a pale-faced Theo.

“Erm—I mean,” he stammered. “Hermione and Draco. Stop fighting. Please.” He gazed at them with wide-eyed innocence. “Not on Christmas Adam.”

Collectively, they blinked.

“What. The fuck,” Draco grumbled, “is a Christmas _Adam_?”

Theo swallowed as he glanced at each of them in turn. “The day before Christmas Eve,” he explained. “You know. Because Adam—“

“—came before Eve,” Pansy finished with a snort. “ _Ugh_ , Nott. You’re the worst.” She drained her wine in one gulp.

“It’s important,” Theo insisted.

Hermione and Draco stared at him—the former with wonder, the latter with skepticism.

Finally, Hermione trained her eyes back on her blond opponent. “All right,” she said carefully. “Malfoy. In the spirit of Christmas _Adam_ ,”—Theo nodded enthusiastically while Draco rolled his eyes—“let’s try to be more _civilized_.”

“Fine,” Draco snarled. He took a loud, deep breath, and then leveled her with a heavy stare. “Granger. I realize now I could have put you in a bad spot at work.” His gaze softened a fraction. “I’m sorry for my thoughtlessness.”

Hermione nodded. “Thank you, Malfoy. And I’m sorry for coming into your home and saying things that could be construed as—“

“‘ _Construed as?’_ ” Draco scoffed.

“Offensive,” said Hermione, wholly ignoring the comment. A corner of her lip twitched. “I apologize if my words made you uncomfortable.”

“Hmm.” Draco’s gaze fell to his long-abandoned plate. “Right,” he mumbled. “Right.” Hesitantly, he picked up his fork and picked at his plate.

Silence fell at the table—the uncomfortable type. Pansy squirmed in her chair, waiting for the other shoe to drop and wishing she had more wine to fortify herself in the meantime.

Although she didn’t need to wait long until Hermione spoke again, uncertainty in her voice. “That’s not all, is it?”

Draco’s grey eyes flicked up from his plate.

“Tell me.”

Draco—cool, unaffected Draco— _blushed_.

Pansy, Blaise, and Theo froze in their seats.

“ _Tell me_ ,” Hermione pushed.

Steel formed in those grey eyes, as though Draco resolved himself to his fate. He laid down his utensils and took the napkin off his lap.

Like he was readying to bolt after this admission.

“It wasn’t your words,” he said slowly, “that truly affected me.”

Hermione tilted her head.

Briefly, Draco’s cheeks hollowed as though he bit them from the inside. “It was your body language. You—I thought, perhaps,”—a deep breath—“you were going to kiss me.”

Hermione’s eyebrows inched up her forehead. They stared at each other wordlessly.

For a full minute, neither moved. And they seemed to have forgotten they had an audience, too—an audience that grew impatient rather quickly.

Pansy gave Hermione a swift kick in the shin to remind her. The witch gave a startled gasp.

“Oh! _Oh_.” Hermione’s gaze drifted down to Draco’s parted lips. “Would you—is that—something…” She dragged her stare back to his eyes, now alight with curiosity. “Would that have been...welcomed?”

Draco blinked. And blinked again as warmth flooded his expression. “Yes,” he rasped. “Very much so.”

“Oh.” Never in their years together had Hermione looked so gobsmacked.

Again, the two froze.

Theo coughed, staring pointedly at Hermione. Blaise nudged his chin at Draco.

“For fuck’s sake,” Pansy muttered. Four heads turned to her, but she only glared back at two of them. She waved her arms emphatically. “ _Go. To. Each. Other_.”

Laughter—light, breathy, not-quite-believing—and then a scraping of chairs against the marble floor echoed in the great dining hall.

But they ran; rushed to each other’s side as though another second apart would be an offense to Merlin himself. And when they met halfway, they nearly collided in their enthusiasm.

Draco’s arms snaked around Hermione’s waist, pulling her close. “Wow,” he murmured. The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Gods, I wish we were alone right now.”

“We deserve to watch this happen with our own eyes!” said Theo.

“Yeah,” agreed Blaise. “All the years of torture you put us through with your constant back-and-forth. This is our reward!” 

“Hear, hear!” The two men clinked their wine glasses.

Draco cocked his head at them. “You know—“

“Oh!” Pansy threw her napkin in the couple’s direction. “Just shut up and kiss already!”

Hermione ducked her head and laughed. Draco, his expression suffused with mirth, cupped her cheek and angled her face up.

“Well?” Draco asked. “Shall we give the masses what they want?”

Hermione nodded; leaned in; parted her lips—

Just as ten men leaped into the dining room.

“Oh, bugger.” Hermione pressed her forehead against Draco’s. “I forgot about that.” She smiled at him sheepishly. “Last one, I promise.”

“Last one,” murmured Draco, leading Hermione to the nearest chair. He plopped down and gathered her in his arms.  

There they cuddled as the five of them watched Hermione’s gift to Draco—an abridged, all-male rendition of _Swan Lake._

As the White Swan dove for his finale, Theo muttered, “Wonderful. Another dead bird.”  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments/Kudos are appreciated.
> 
> The Voldemort drag show scene was heavily inspired by a popular clip online of a Voldemort-themed drag show at OASIS. Google it. It’s worth watching (over and over and over again!).


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